Your Flames are Quick and Mean
by Kelly1
Summary: Pyro and Avalanche oneshot. After St.John’s death, Dominic buries the only ashes he has. Dominic first person P.O.V. friend fic.


**Disclaimer: ** Marvel owns.  
A/N: This is my first comicverse fic.... :: anxious :: Constructive feedback is appreciated.

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Raven helps me bury the coffee can in the abandoned back yard of Freedom Force's old base. I have no idea where St. John's actual body is now, but I hope this counts and that he'll forgive me for it. That's one of the problems with this business, more often than not, you mourn absences and ideas. There's never any real closure. We say what we have to say to St. John. The heat is oppressive as I shovel dirt; I tell myself it's the sweat dripping off my forehead into my eyes that's making them sting and water. I can barely see what I'm doing by the end of it.

Raven's hand is on my shoulder as we walk away. We don't talk about Kuwait. We don't talk about what just happened with the Senator. She lights herself a cigarette. They're Camels; she usually smokes Marlboros. "You want one?"

I don't even hesitate. "God, yes."

----

It's halftime when St. John pulls the Camels and his lighter from his back pocket. "Cig?" He grins wide at me, offering the pack. I haven't smoked in six years and we both know it. He still tempts me with them every damn time.

"Nah, Helen'll have my head." I get up to stretch, pacing a small circle around the ancient leather lazy-boy.

It's the dead of winter and we're sitting in my garage, (my manly haven, devoid of throw pillows and knick knacks,) watching the Steelers thoroughly destroy the Lions. "See, and I thought head was the only reason to have a wife." It's _almost_ like old times again, before Kuwait, St. John ribbing me, big shit-eating smirk on his face, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Any second, he's going to go off on a tangent about why Aussie rules football (Footie, he calls it, but that always makes me think of kids' pyjamas) is a much better sport and how someday he's going to take me to see the Hawks play in Melbourne. Which will never happen now.

Of course, I have to open my mouth and ruin it.

St. John's huddled in the other recliner, (technically it's for any guest I have out here, but it's Johnny's chair... it's always been Johnny's chair) looking thin and pale in his cocoon of blankets. I crank the space heater without him asking; I'm in a t-shirt and sweating. He has his thumb on the flint wheel, cigarette dangling loosely from the corner of his mouth when I interrupt him. "Do you really think that you should...?"

The rest of my sentence dies with a glare from St. John, but he's quick to cover it up. The smile is still there but it's sardonic now. "What? Like I gotta worry about lung cancer or something?"

I'm angry at him for being so goddamn flip about this all the time. (I'm angry at him for dying on me.) That wasn't what I meant. "No...your powers...." As the virus progresses, it's getting harder and harder for St. John to be around so much as an ember without it flaring, going out of control. Someday very soon, Raven and I are going to have to take his lighter away from him. We've already talked about it. It's going to kill him as fast as the Legacy will.

He flicks the Zippo with exaggerated finesse; a fiery hand is flipping me off before he snuffs it out. "My powers are fine. Pass me the tin."

I pad across the room to my tool shelf, reaching the coffee can off the top; it's heavy with sand and butts and ash from afternoons like this. He's the only one who's allowed to smoke in here; I make everyone else go outside. St. John starts swearing under his breath behind me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He's taking another cigarette out of the pack and I'm confused until I see the small pile of soot at his feet. I sit back down, placing the canister between us on the floor. I couldn't care less about the first half highlights they're showing on TV, but I pretend I do for St. John's sake. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he tries again. The second cigarette burns from tip to filter in a matter of seconds, cinder falling with a soft puff on concrete, and so does the third one.

He has more luck with the fourth, which burns slow for two drags before disintegrating on him. "For fuck's sakes!" I look over at him, trying to hide my alarm. And apparently failing. "Don't get your panties in a twist, mate." He smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes and the effect is more disquieting than reassuring. "This is your fault, you know. You had to bring it up and now I'm thinking about it."

"Sorry." Because I am, and because I don't know what else to say.

"Well, you owe me a pack of cigs. Now turn around."

"What? Why?"

His grin comes back, genuine. "Says the man who walks fifty meters into the bush when we're on a mission so no one can hear him take a piss. Performance anxiety. Turn around." He spins his finger to illustrate, and I oblige.

The lighter clicks three more times. And then for a few seconds there's nothing but the buzz of the sports announcers before I hear the squeak of leather and the rustle of blankets. I don't turn around until the soft, choked noises start.

St. John is on his knees on the floor, sweeping ash furiously, scooping palmfuls into the coffee can. "Johnny?" He won't look up at me; he just keeps brushing and scooping, brushing and scooping, his shoulders slumped and shuddering hard. And then I'm down beside him. His cheeks are wet and he keeps turning his face away from me. Brushing and scooping. "Come on, stop that, huh?"

"I'm sorry. I made a mess of your garage. I'm sorry." His hand goes to his forehead, kneading, leaving a streak of soot. His voice is high and tight, verging on hysteria. "It's such a fucking mess."

"Don't worry about it. It's okay." I put my hand on the small of his back, rubbing in small circles; we're both shaking worse than when I use my powers.

"I don't want to die like this, Dominic!" He yells it at me, stark and non-sequitur and desperate. He's sobbing now.

I can't fix this, I can't change anything. "I'm sorry, Johnny." I pull him close, and we sit there on the cold concrete together and there's not a damn thing either of us can do to make this better. "I'm so sorry." Because I am, and because I don't know what else to say.


End file.
